


looks like we started us a fire

by r1ker



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 02:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4417340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the season two preview wrecked me</p>
    </blockquote>





	looks like we started us a fire

**Author's Note:**

> the season two preview wrecked me

He doesn’t know why he agrees to meet with Oswald.

 

It’s really a spur-of-the-moment thing; so many phone calls had been coming in to the station since what the media was calling “the war” began and Jim became blind once he answered them all. This particular call is his last one of the day and he’s so exhausted, so ready to be done with work on this particular day and return home to the shelter of his apartment that he answers without looking at the caller ID.

 

“GCPD, Detective Gordon,” he says by rote. He’s already grabbing his backpack and his phone and putting them on his person so he can make a mad dash for the door when whatever this call’s about is settled. He doesn’t plan on hearing the voice he hears over the other end of the line.

 

“Jim, it’s Oswald,” the voice says confidently and Jim can feel his hand tighten on the receiver. “How is everything with Gotham’s finest?”

 

“Fucking wild, if you’re asking me,” Jim sighs and already lets his bag slide to the floor from his lap. This is going to take a while if he’s dealing with Oswald. They haven’t spoke since Jim had him freed from the rooftop, Oswald cursing under his breath while Jim broke the cuff around his wrists with a set of bolt cutters. There’s a lot and also not much to be spoken about between the two of them. “Make it quick, I’m trying to get home before you people make me stay longer.”

 

“Meet with me at the bar, but upstairs in the study,” Oswald asks of him. “It’ll just be you and I. No bodyguards, no one else to influence what I know we have to talk about. I won’t keep you busy for more than fifteen minutes.”

 

The silence that follows after that request is just long enough for Jim to hang up the phones and blame it on a problem with the line. Instead he sighs, mumbles something along the lines of _I’ll be there as soon as I can_ , and grabs his bag.

 

Jim almost doesn’t think the bar is open when he arrives. The exterior is darker than he anticipated, almost more so than usual. He fears something’s happened in the short amount of time since he hung up the phone but he watches a curtain shift on the middle of the three floors. Someone is peering out and when they spot him a singular candle light flickers to life.

 

Using the light as the invitation to come in, Jim enters and walks upstairs, watching as that one light seems to translate into his map, leading him to the study at the end of the hall. He waits a beat before coming in, lingering just at the mouth of the door that’s partially shut.

 

His first two knuckles rap on the door and it’s a second or two later before he hears Oswald say, “Come in, please.” Jim walks in and it’s about as much of a businesslike interior as he’s ever seen Oswald establish. Still a bit ominous, something Jim is positive Oswald will never ditch no matter how many times his life and livelihood in essence are threatened. Jim has come to be accustomed to it.

 

A midsized oak table is situated before a grand fireplace, flames providing the only light in the room alongside the candle Jim spots that was first lit to invite him up. For some reason a small flower arrangement is in a concave vase in the middle of the table, holding some ambience-appropriate dark flowers Jim’s not sure are alive or not.

 

Paintings and other votive candles are around Oswald, who’s ditched the skittish way he acted around Jim before in favor of a businesslike nature that makes him sit up straighter in his chair. Scanning around the room, taking in his environment just in case he has to recount it in an incident report later, Jim almost falls down when he spots Selina in a crouch in the corner of the room. With a small smile in his direction she waves and Oswald’s eyes crinkle at the corner. Jim feels like he’s been pitted one-against-two but sits down at the table across from Oswald anyway. If anyone ever said Jim Gordon was a glutton for punishment, no way in hell were they wrong.

 

“I’m starting to think you like dragging me in here to talk,” Jim says matter-of-factly. Oswald smirks in a stilted little gesture, leans back in his chair a little. “Can I ask what this is about?”

 

“I needed your company during all of this,” Oswald answers simply, stretching back further in his seat. Jim can see the satisfied look on his face, a cat that’s gotten into the cream. Jim rolls his eyes and sits there a little while longer while Oswald ponders on what to say next. “You are, after all, still indebted to me.”

 

“Oh, what, the damned favor?” Jim asks, annoyed now. This thing has been hanging over his head for weeks, months and he has no idea what Oswald’s going to ask him for. It could be anything and Jim’s mind doesn’t fail in delivering the more extreme circumstances. What it could be is a deliberate ignore of Oswald's actions, a loose purse string here when it comes to Jim looking the other way at work on Oswald’s, well, business pursuits. He hates to say that the suspense is killing him but it has been the root cause of a great deal of worrying over the last few weeks.

 

Oswald nods slowly and a satisfied little smirk slides over his features. A long breath released slowly accompanies that motion and he says, “I know you’ve been waiting for a while to know what I want from you. It’s not anything you’ll have to worry about. I wouldn’t go as far to say it couldn’t be arranged but it has the potential to be should you agree to it.” He looks over to where Selina is, just over Jim’s shoulder a few feet away.

 

With a small perk of his head it sends her out of the room. Jim glances once and sees that she’s not leaving regretfully; the way she flounces out and closes the door quietly behind her leaves Jim to think that she is fully aware as to what is going to happen.

 

“This is going to sound radical to you, I’m almost positive,” Oswald begins, rising from his seat and motioning with one hand for Jim to do the same. To this day Jim doesn’t know why he obeys. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s got nothing to lose now, they’re both in each other too deep to say no to damn near anything.

 

The two of them stand face-to-face, a decent amount of space between their bodies to not suggest anything to the common outsider. But to ones that are aware of Oswald’s infatuation to the detective, the obsession that’s blossomed in the way that things wish to do in Gotham, it’s more than enough to prove a point.

 

The fire behind them is on its last legs made of ember and wood, popping and crackling weakly behind the two men as Jim looks at Oswald. The gray in his eyes is almost glassy when exposed to the light of the fire. There’s no mischievousness hiding in the corners of Oswald’s mouth as it did in days and weeks before. No sense of scheme lingers behind his eyes. It’s enough to make Jim want to ask him just what the hell he wants him to do.

 

Oswald knows. He’s all there in sound, mind, and body. Though he had it in him to ask before taking, he knows Jim – and himself – well enough to delve in without asking, kissing Jim for all he’s worth. It’s an awkward position, neck craned and hands dangling awkwardly at his sides, brow and eyelids relaxed and slack. In the midst of his comfort doing this, he feels Jim freeze up instantaneously.

 

Jim, now that you mention it, doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He wanted this too but in a more understated fashion; he hadn't planned on asking for it but now that it's being given to him, he finds he needs it to function. He starts to really get into it, relax into it, when Oswald backs off from the vicious nature he chooses to put into this kiss. In fact, Jim’ll hate himself for it later, but his hands go to Oswald’s shoulders to keep him from melting any further. Oswald leans into his touch, wanting more of Jim than what he’s already taken - what Jim's letting him take graciously - for himself.

 

Something clatters to the floor and for a second Jim doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t care to open his eyes to see it on the ground at their feet. It turns out to be a stack of papers he couldn’t see Oswald holding. They fall around the room in a sheath of white, scattering around and exposing their sensitive information, but Oswald could care less. In fact, he thinks he does. Everything he’s yearned after in the last few months – the bar, power, money, influence – cannot equate to this by a long shot. There’s no test he could put those things to that they wouldn’t fail in the face of this kiss.

 

Jim’s hands start to ache for something to touch and they find relief in the sides of Oswald’s face, the fine grain of the skin that makes Jim’s fingertips burn when they make contact. Oswald even indulges himself a little as well, fingers finding refuge in the soft folds of Jim’s shirt. The muscles of Jim's stomach flutter in this mild contact. 

 

They break apart long enough to wrestle their hands down to each others’ respective belt loops, wrestling apart buckle from leather holes and freeing their underwear. The sound of fabric rustling is overpowered only by the heavy breaths Oswald can’t stop himself from letting out into the air. He is trembling with the need to satisfy the burn eddying in his blood. Never before has a simple kiss ignited such a desire. He chalks it up to his longstanding desire to have Jim in such a situation.

 

Jim takes back over when he sees Oswald’s hands start to get a bit too eager. He claims Oswald’s mouth again, wastes no time in shoving his tongue alongside Oswald’s, and plays with the waistband of his underwear to waste time. There he finds warm flesh, digs circles into it as it gives under his touch. Oswald gasps like he’s been shocked, shaking hands holding onto Jim’s wrists for leverage. Using that Jim strays downward, fingers holding on at the crooks of Oswald’s hips where his legs come to his body. There the skin is thin, more sensitive, and Jim swallows the groans Oswald makes in return.

 

Pulling back from Jim enough to let sound travel between their lips, Oswald grits out, “Please touch me. That’s it, that’s the favor, I just need you to…” He tries to finish but finds Jim jumping the gun, fingers wrapping around Oswald’s cock. Jim can’t stop trembling, both with first-time nervousness he can’t believe he has at almost thirty years old, and also from a small bit of fear. He’s afraid this is meaning more than it should.

 

He wants nothing more than to stop this, return to his part of Gotham, but God, he loves it. His senses rejoice in the five-course meal this experience is providing for him. Every time his hands stroke Oswald’s cock he likes hearing the groans, the moans. Jim wants to know why he didn’t do this sooner if he knew it was going to be so satisfying in the rush it provides.

 

Oswald’s close after only a few minutes. Jim can tell it, doesn’t want for him to be, wants this to last forever, but as all good things must, it has to come to an end. Oswald starts grunting with the force of wanting to stave off the orgasm but as his balls tighten just under Jim’s fingers, he lets go with the strength he has left. Jim doesn’t mind the flow of come landing onto his palm and the crooks of his fingers.

 

Through all of this Oswald’s mind blanks. For the first time in his life his brain experiences a white screen come over it, blocking out any and all thoughts that existed, exist currently, or will ever exist while the pleasure courses through his body.

 

Gasping for air he rests himself against Jim, who’s jerking himself off in earnest to seek the high Oswald just came tumbling down from. A few hard strokes and he comes in his pants like an amateur, the roughness of his hand through the fabric of his trousers and the lingering thoughts of Oswald coming inches away from him working to fuel the fire.

 

Exhausted and not able to catch their breath, the two stagger over to the chaise in the corner, formerly obscured by darkness but clear in its entirety to Oswald’s senses. Jim goes down first, falling onto the back of the little couch with a weary sigh, and Oswald follows in a more poised manner.

 

While they both are sitting a few inches away, their unconnected arrangement is not without mutual contact. A few of Jim’s fingers are always touching some inch of Oswald above the waist, his hair, the nape of his neck, the shell of his ear. Like before Oswald seeks the contact feverishly and tries to reciprocate. He gives up after grasping ahold of one of Jim’s hands that isn’t busy and keeping it secure in one of his.

 

“That was why I called you here,” he says finally, breaking the comfortable silence. Jim looks down at him in need of an explanation. After what they just did it doesn’t have to be a long one but it’ll satisfy one last nervous synapse in Jim’s brain that’s itching to know. “I wanted to see if you’d follow my lead, do what you did. You did. Oh, God.” Oswald gives a little laugh at that, rolls the muscles in his leg in an attempt to shake out the knot that’s formed. Jim nods absently and holds on to him tighter with one arm around his back on the couch. They’ll figure out whatever this is after a few minutes of rest. After all, when have they ever solved things instantly?


End file.
